


I'm Gonna See Concrete

by LaurelSilver



Series: Victimised [30]
Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Gay Jokes, Gen, Kidnapping, Whumptober 2020, description of animal abuse, minor homophobia, shock collar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28891155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: "This artery's a part of me/And blood is all I'm gonna be/I'm gonna see concrete/Bottles and bad dreams/I'm everything and anything/A memory that never leaves."Johnny 3 Tears, GravityJohnny wakes up in the warehouse.
Relationships: George Ragan | Johnny 3 Tears & Matthew Busek | Da Kurlzz
Series: Victimised [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/910587
Kudos: 5
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	I'm Gonna See Concrete

**Author's Note:**

> NAMES:  
> Johnny (Johnny 3 Tears)  
> Matty (Da Kurlzz)  
> Jorel (J-Dog)
> 
> 1\. I have not done, nor do I have any intention of doing, anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fiction.  
> 2\. I don't think Mattyhas done, or has any intention of doing, anything described in this fic.  
> 3\. I do not encourage or condone anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fic. Recreating this fic, or anything similar, is illegal and immoral and very fucked up.  
> 4\. You are not obliged to read, finish reading if you start, or comment/kudos if you finish. There is no story here. It just mindless violence for no real reason.
> 
> Reiterated warning; this fic contains descriptions of animal abuse.

Johnny woke up. His eyes were heavy and his mind screamed at his hands to come rub the sleep away and take in the world. His shoulders ached. The world was bright but silent and Johnny couldn’t place himself. The taste of metal clung to his mouth. The ground under his knees was cold and hard.

Wait. Under his knees?

The realisation he was knelt up forced its way into his groggy, hanging brain, and his head rose and his eyes opened. Light burned into his sight and settled into concrete, with a thin rug and a single sofa and coffee table. A book sat face-down on the coffee table next to a mug with thin drips of coffee stains all down the side. Beyond, a kitchenette sat in the corner, Johnny barely able to make out the shape of the fridge and the oven from this distance with his drunken eyes still doubling up the room. The doors sat by the kitchenette, closed. The ceiling rose high into the roof, sunlight peeping in through worn out cracks.

Johnny shuffled. His arms ached, pulled behind him and fastened up above his head. The rope bit into his wrists, and old blood was making his arms feel sticky. Johnny looked back at them and wriggled his fingers. They responded, curling and uncurling over each other like a distressed spider.

As he turned his head back around, his eyes caught something shining over to his left. A metal chair sat on the concrete, thick straps hanging from the arms and back, ready to pounce over any unfortunate limb to enter its hugging space.

Johnny looked away from it and stared at the floor in front of him. It was hard to focus, cocaine and alcohol and weed and alcohol and ecstasy and alcohol and god knows what else and alcohol still swimming through his brain.

Johnny took a deep breath and folded his feet under his shins, his toes pressing into the concrete. Another deep breath and he pushed down, his muscles groaning with effort as he rose. His shoulders pulled like an un-oiled hinge.

Finally stood, Johnny surveyed his surroundings again. He was freezing cold, and vaguely aware he was naked. A small bathroom sat in the corner to his right, and he recognised his joggers dumped on the floor there. A mattress lay on the floor in the opposite corner to his left. The chair, now that Johnny was taller than it, was surrounded by a red rose of dried blood.

The doors opened, and a dark shadow passed through. They closed again, and the distinctive sound of a deadbolt sliding closed rang out.

Johnny blinked as the newcomer stepped into the room, dark clothes and distinctive mop of curly dark hair swimming into vision.

“Matthew?”

Matty had roll his head back to make eye contact with Johnny, even with Johnny stooped under his twisted arms. His stare bore straight through Johnny’s skull, like he was staring up into the wall behind him.

“Matty, man,” Johnny said, and flexed his hands again. At a higher angle like this, the rope bit harder into the tops of Johnny’s wrists and his fingers were going numb, “Can you get me out of here?”

“What?” Matty said, and his eyes focused back on Johnny like he’d only just realised who he was staring at.

“Get me out of here,” Johnny said again, “I don’t know how I got here. Man, I was so fucked up.”

“I know. I brought you here.”

“What?”

Johnny’s hung-over brain slugged through what Matty had said. It was hard for him to think about multiple things at once, and his surroundings and pain and the massive blood stain a stone’s throw from him were forgotten to focus purely on Matty, and on the fact Johnny was naked.

“ _Dude_ ,” Johnny said.

“What?”

“If you wanted to see me naked, you just had to ask.”

Matty groaned.

“You know I’m not gay, but I support y’all. A man’s got needs, even the limp ones, I get it.”

“I’m not gay!”

“I mean,” Johnny tried to shrug, “Kidnapping a guy, stripping him naked and tying him up is pretty gay, man. Not to burst your bubble or nothing, but straight guys don’t tend to do that.”

Matty rolled his eyes and shed his jacket. A plastic bag was tucked down the back of it, pressed flush against his back.

The pain in Johnny’s wrists re-registered, and so did the blood stain. Johnny stepped away from Matty on instinct, and his arms pressed into his shoulders like pins.

“I got this for you,” Matty said, “They’re designed for dogs, unless you buy the fetish version, but I got the feeling y’all wouldn’t let it go if I was buying kinky shit.”

“What the fuck are you babbling about?”

Matty let the plastic bag fall to the floor. So wasteful, the turtles are fucking dying Matthew. A loop of belting sat in Matty’s hands with a plastic nub nestled by its buckle.

Johnny blinked at it several times, the device taking several seconds to register. It was Jorel he remembered first, ranting to him about abusive dog owners and dog fights and training dogs for hunting and racing. Then he remembered the pictures Jorel had showed him on his Internet phone, dogs with deep grooves on their faces and broken teeth from cruel muzzles, gouges down their backs and legs from fights, thick bloody blisters from shock collars.

(Jorel had said he wanted to make animal abusers suffer the abuse they’d inflicted on their animals, staring hard at a picture of a dog with cigarette burns in a line down her back, her spine visible, her fur thinned until she was almost naked. A year after his freedom from Matty, Johnny would remember this conversation and Jorel’s face again, and this time he would remember a hot malice and hatred in Jorel’s eyes.)

Matty stepped up to Johnny and reached up to loop the collar around his neck. Johnny moved as much as his twisted arms would allow, bucking his head in an attempt to make it harder for Matty to close the clasp.

The clasp closed with a calm click regardless. Matty took the excess belting and pulled it snug. The metal prongs were cold against Johnny’s skin, and Matty adjusted it until the shock box was nestled against the side of Johnny’s neck.

(A few days later, Johnny remembered Jorel making jokes about waking up to Matty’s hands on his neck, accusing Matty of trying to “spread his choking fetish”. He remembered the way Matty kept one hand up his sleeve, hidden, as he repeatedly told Jorel to fuck off.)

Matty’s hands rested on Johnny’s collar bones, staring at Johnny’s throat with a dreamy smile on his face.

Johnny had to drop back down to his knees for Matty to reach the knot holding his arms back. The binds tightened and loosened and Johnny fell forwards on his face, arms by his sides, useless. He grunted at the cold concrete pressed against his forehead.

Matty rolled Johnny over and dragged him to sit up. Johnny groaned like an un-oiled hinge. Skin seemed to sink between his ribs, his collarbones flexed out, and Matty could easily wrap his hands around Johnny’s thigh in a closed ring. Johnny was shaking so hard it was almost visible.

“Come on,” Matty said, “Let’s get you up.”

Johnny frowned up at him. There were at least three different questions battling for dominance of his tongue, and while all three could be encompassed by “what the fuck?” Johnny was still too hungover to figure that out.

“I said; get up.”

Matty’s hands seized Johnny by the biceps and dragged him upright with far more ease than Johnny liked. Johnny towered several inches over Matty but his legs wobbled and he collapsed straight onto him. Pins and needles danced in Johnny’s blood-lost feet.

Matty grunted, and wrapped an arm around Johnny’s back. Johnny leant on Matty’s shoulder and half hobbled, half allowed himself to be lead over to the chair.

The bloodstained concrete felt the same as the unstained concrete underfoot. It didn’t register until Matty was lowering Johnny onto the seat.

“No,” Johnny said, “Dude, no.”

“Sit down,” Matty said, and let Johnny drop into the chair.

The metal of the chair was ice against Johnny’s skin, and he hissed and winced away like he’d been burned. Matty shoved him back into place, flush against the biting ice, and Johnny writhed in protest.

“Hold still,” Matty said, and his hands clamped over Johnny’s wrists.

“Let go!” Johnny yelled, and pulled. His hands wriggled, his elbows shifted, but his wrists stayed firm in Matty’s grip.

“Hold still,” Matty said again.

“Fuck you!”

Matty let go, and Johnny’s hands shot back up into his chest. Matty’s hand plunged into a pocket.

Johnny’s throat burned and his jaw dropped open. All the muscles in his body seemed to try to tense in unison.

“Put your hands back down,” Matty ordered.

Johnny blinked at him. He yelped as a second shock burned through his body, and he slammed his hands down against the arms of the chair.

“Not so hard is it,” Matty said. He took the arm’s strap and closed it over Johnny’s wrist.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober 2020, combining 3 different days.
> 
> The book Matty is reading is A History of Heavy Metal by Andrew O'Neill because that's the book I'm currently reading and I'm enjoying so shout out to him.  
> There's only a mattress because Matty wasn't bothered about seeking out a bedframe on top of everything else for the murderhouse. Jorel later buys a bedframe because sleeping on the floor sucks, and its also important for preventing a build-up of moisture and grossness inside the bed. Which is also why you're supposed to turn your mattress over at least every six months. Just an FYI.  
> I have a weird thing for over-emphasising tall characters and I refuse to apologise for that.  
> A year(ish) after this fic, once Johnny is free, Jorel follows Johnny to the warehouse and discovers everything. Another Whumptober fic coming on that.
> 
> It's much easier to write a fic about a lyric than it is to find a lyric to fit a fic.
> 
> Remember to roll your shoulders back and straighten your spine from time to time. Posture is important.


End file.
